


Affaire de Cœur

by Copgirl1964



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abduction, Greg is a Swimmer, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft is a Fencer, Sex mentioned, olympic au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-07-20 15:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16140188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/pseuds/Copgirl1964
Summary: Mycroft is a member of the English fencing team, Greg swims for the French team at the Olympic Games in Rio. Both men met in London in 2012, where they established a mostly sexual relationship. Now, in Rio in 2016, they face new challenges, and perhaps there's more to their relationship than either of them thought.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TryingToMystrade (TryingToScribble)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TryingToScribble/gifts).



> The story is for the Mystrade Birthday Buddy 2018. And here's the best part of the whole thing: it comes with another piece of mind-boggling artwork by @Camillo1978. You can either find it on my Tumblr page or, once the second chapter is published, here on AO3. 
> 
> Most of the story is complete but the second half needs a little bit more writing, editing and betaing. Speaking of which: thank you very very much, @Bryntwedge for betaing on very short notice. Also thank you @jainasherself for helping with the French expressions I used. 
> 
> To clarify a couple of terms: In fencing the weapons called foil, épée and sabre, and the qualifications in swimming, before semi-final and/or final are called heat. It's amazing what you can learn from researcing for a story.

Mycroft barely had time to register the man who had flitted into the lift just before the doors closed. One moment he had been contemplating the mistakes he had made during training, the next, a warm body pressed him into the metallic surface of the lift’s wall.

“Oh, mon chéri, how I missed you!” 

For once Mycroft’s body caught up before his brain; he wrapped his arms around the other athlete without hesitation and allowed his lips to go pliant under the onslaught of the clever mouth.

“Gregory, I didn’t think..” Mycroft stammered when the kiss had ended and the doors were opening fifteen floors later.

“Seriously?” Chocolate coloured eyes twinkled mischievously. “Mycroft Holmes not thinking? Quite impossible, non?”

28 year old Greg Lestrade, proud member of l'équipe Olympique française de Natation, pulled Mycroft, 26 year old white hope of the British fencing team, from the lift. 

They looked at each other and Mycroft’s face broke out into a smile that mirrored Greg Lestrade’s.

Mind and body finally reunited, Mycroft led Greg to the room he occupied. He was one of the few who had managed to claim a room for himself because only a day before the Olympic games in Brazil started, his assigned room-mate and fellow fencer had fallen down a set of stairs and broken his ankle.

Locking the door behind them, Mycroft let Greg peel him out of his clothes, and mere minutes after they had shared their first kiss since 2012, they tumbled naked into Mycroft’s bed. 

* * *

They had met during the Olympic games in London, and Mycroft still remembered the moment like it happened only four days ago instead of four years. He had been stretching for the next round, nearly doing the splits, when Gregory raced into the room and nearly slammed into him. They had grappled to prevent themselves from falling over and then Mycroft had found himself in the arms of a man who was wearing the same colours as the opponent he had to fight next. 

“Mon dieu, je vous demande bien pardon,” the man had burst out. Once he’d noticed the British flag on the sleeve of Mycroft’s jacket he added, “I mean, I’m very sorry.”

Initially Mycroft had suspected the accident had happened on purpose, but the man who had helped him to regain his balance had stared at him as if he was awestruck by the most beautiful sight all the while keeping a hold of Mycroft’s hands.

Only much later would he learn that this was exactly what had happened. When Mycroft looked into the mirror he saw a lanky man with an unfortunate complexion, undesirable ginger hair that curled in all the wrong places, and on top of that, a beak of a nose and a face full of freckles. 

Greg, who’d always had a thing for ginger hair to begin with, saw elegant long limbs and a youthful face with porcelain skin. Instead of the nose that was perhaps too hawkish to be considered becoming, Greg only noticed Mycroft’s stormy blue eyes that gleamed with fierce intelligence. As for the freckles, yes, Greg saw them for what they were but while Mycroft thought they were hideous, they were the icing of the cake for Greg.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Mycroft asked angrily, once he’d regained his composure. It was easy enough to identify the man from his clothes and language as a member of the French Olympic team, and the combination of his build and the slight whiff of chlorine allowed Mycroft to place him among the swimmers. 

“Greg Lestrade. I’m here to deliver this to André Labille.” Greg held up a bag that contained a sabre. 

Labille had brought the wrong sabre to the competition. Not wrong by requirement but Labille had wanted the sabre he’d left in his room for this fight, not the one he’d brought initially. Greg, who’d been available, had been quickly assigned to make the delivery.

“I let you get back to your stretching,” Greg added, when the other man didn’t introduce himself in return. “Pleasure to meet you.” He flashed his brightest smile at the fencer. “Perhaps I’ll see you later.” And off he ran, to deliver his cargo. 

André Labille was a very talented but also extremely superstitious athlete. He had demanded that only another member of l'équipe Olympique française was allowed to carry the bag with his sabre. Anybody else touching it would mean bad luck. Greg would deny until his dying day that the bag had been in contact with the man from Britain he’d run into. Otherwise he’d never hear the end of it.

Although Mycroft had had a hard time pushing the image of dark brown eyes and the French man’s strong swimmer’s physique from his mind, he had destroyed André Labille on the piste that day.  
Later Greg Lestrade had come to find him. They had shared dinner that night and, for the rest of the Olympic games in London, as often as possible, a bed.

* * *

Mycroft looked at the food on Greg’s plate or, to be more accurate, what was left of it. Counting three banana peels and a stone and skin of a mango, he could only smile at the man who was just eating slices of a papaya. The only fruit left was a cupuaçu. Mycroft knew it grew in Brazil but he hadn’t tried one himself.

“It looks like you’re quite fond of fruit, particularly bananas,” he stated, sitting down with his own plate.

“Me, monkey-man,” Greg replied, and pounded his chest with both fists.

Mycroft grinned and rolled his eyes at the man’s antics. “Since you’re probably trying to impersonate a gorilla, Gregory, I’d like to point out that gorillas are not monkeys but apes.”

Greg made a few sounds which Mycroft decided were supposed to be those of a chimpanzee. 

“Doesn’t matter whether it’s a monkey or an ape. Currently I’d make a very poor ape anyway, with my legs, arms and even chest completely hairless. You though...” Greg stared pointedly and with obvious appreciation at the v-neck of Mycroft’s t-shirt where an appealing tuft of ginger chest-hair was peeking out.

“I’m not going to swing from any branches for your entertainment,” Mycroft said, before he started on his own food. 

Greg pouted. “You are no fun.”

“I recall you making noises yesterday that prove the opposite.”

“My memory is terrible these days. Perhaps once we’re finished here you could refresh it?” Greg waggled his eye-brows at Mycroft, making him smile again.

“First tell me about your day. You successfully swam a heat and, considering your appetite and good mood, also a semi-final?”

Greg nodded excitedly. “200 m freestyle. The final is tonight.” He looked at his wrist watch and frowned. “It starts in 7 hours. We’ll be swimming shortly after ten tonight.” 

Mycroft shook his head. Without any regard for the athletes, certain competitions were held between 10pm and midnight local time in order to fit in with peak TV viewing in the US. 

While Mycroft ate, Greg provided him with a plethora of details on both races as well as the contestants before he mentioned rather casually that at one point he’d visited the Carioca Arena where Mycroft had competed in the foil individual. 

Mycroft almost choked on the piece of carrot he had just put in his mouth. “You.. what?” Blue eyes big as saucers stared at the swimmer who was looking rather smug.

“I had time to kill and I wanted to see you fight again.” Greg gave a shrug as if that was the most natural thing to do. 

“Time to kill between a heat, watching your teammates’ heats, getting physiotherapy, taking a nap and later competing in the semi-final? Not to mention the trips back and forth between the village and the Aquatics stadium,” Mycroft listed with the help of his fingers. 

“I could have sat together with my teammates and listen to the endless gibberish of our coach but I decided that I needed a bit of a distraction.” Scratching his ear, obviously more embarrassed than he was willing to let on, Greg added, “and I really wanted to see you compete.”

Flustered, Mycroft poked a piece of turkey on his plate. “What did you think?” 

Greg had managed to watch Mycroft in the quarter final before he returned to the Aquatics stadium. The speed of Mycroft’s actions and reactions in the fights was without comparison. Greg had seen slow motion pictures on the large screen in the background. It had looked as if Mycroft knew his combatant’s move before the actual attack came and had reacted as fast as lightning. The other contestant had only managed to score one point in the three-minute-long fight while Mycroft had ended up with nine. There was only one way he could describe what he had seen.

“You were amazing.”

Mycroft’s face turned a distinct shade of pink. He knew he was very good but Gregory’s praise felt better than the ‘well done, Holmes’ from the strict head-coach of the fencing team. 

Pushing the empty plate away, Mycroft stood up. “I believe you wanted to have your memory refreshed,” he said with a grin that made Greg’s toes curl. 

They put their trays away and quickly left the room, ignorant of two men who were watching them like hawks.

 

* * *

The following day, exhausted both from the competition and two spectacular orgasms, the athletes went to grab some dinner. Mycroft chose steamed vegetables, potatoes and turkey while Greg opted for grilled fish, rice and a salad. 

“Didn’t you have lunch right before you tackled me in the lift?” Mycroft asked, once they sat down. He remembered clearly that Greg’s kiss had tasted like strawberry protein shake, and the spots on Greg’s t-shirt looked like they had been caused by a grilled-cheese sandwich fairly recently.

“Swimming burns heaps of calories,” Greg replied, while shovelling food in his mouth, smiling gently because he had always admired Mycroft’s deduction skills. “Unless I’m eating enough protein, my muscles disappear like this.” He snapped his fingers.

Mycroft’s eyes roamed appreciatively over the strong shoulders of his counterpart, he’d clung to less than half an hour ago. 

“In that case, have some more.” He offered Greg a piece of turkey with a grin. “Actually you’ve earned more than a bit of meat. You’ve won a silver medal, Gregory! That should be celebrated with ice-cream instead of this.” Mycroft indicated the food on their plates with a sweep of his hand.

Chewing the offered meat, Greg’s smile slowly disappeared. “Yeah, and bloody Moran got gold. One-hundredth second faster.”

Swallowing his expression hardened in determination. “Butterfly is coming up in a couple of days, and I’m going to win gold then.” 

Mycroft pulled him from his seat. “Let’s go for a walk. I’ve hardly seen anything of the Olympic village, aside from the trabsport terminal.”

“I saw a man selling ice-cream from a cart yesterday. He stood near the north entrance,” Greg said. 

“Alright. I’ll buy the ice-cream and you can finally explain to me why on earth you’re swimming for the French team instead of the English?”

Greg guffawed. “I suppose that’s possible.” 

* * *

They found a bench in the shadow of one of the huge buildings the Olympic village consisted of, and sat down to eat their ice-cream. Between eating the rapidly melting ice-cream, Greg told Mycroft about his dreams to swim at the Olympic games. He’d always been a good swimmer, not spectacular, but eventually he got accepted on the English team.

“I grew up bi-lingual,” Greg said, licking the last bit of ice-cream from his fingers, “lived with my parents six months each year in Brighton and the other six months in Marseille. I was mostly home taught because mum and dad kept moving back and forth. Naturally, when I got on the team, I had this accent.”

“I like your accent very much,” Mycroft told him. “I like it even more when you switch to French involuntarily.”

“Of course you do,” Greg laughed, because he knew that he had the tendency to curse in French during sex.

“Anyway, some members of the English team called me a frog. They started after I had this stupid accident where I slipped on the starting block. It cost me precious time, and all of a sudden I was The Frog.”

Greg knew it was stupid but back then, when he’d been young and sought acceptance, the name had hurt. “Frogs should know how to jump properly, one of them said to me, and the others laughed at me. Eventually it was too much and since I’ve both English and French citizenship, I could join l’equipe.”

Mycroft took Greg’s hand. “I’m sorry this happened to you.” 

“Not your fault but thank you.” Greg kissed Mycroft gently. “How did you get into fencing? It’s not as common as swimming.”

To his great surprise, Mycroft’s face turned a distinct shade of pink.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked, flummoxed by his friend’s reaction.  
   
“My brother Sherlock, he’s seven years my junior, got a book about pirates on his fourth birthday and for the following two years or so, every game he wanted to play had to be about pirates. He and his friend were the pirates and I usually took the role of their adversary. My passion for fencing developed while I fought Sherlock and his fellow pirate with a wooden sword. Next thing I knew, I’d won a tournament and my parents were contacted by a talent acquisition manager.“  
   
Greg beamed at him. „Having been a great big brother worked quite well for you.”  
   
“Only in regard of fencing. Sherlock never forgave me when I left for that boarding school in Somerset, which specialized in both education and training pupils with talents for sports. I tried to explain to him that I’d have gone to boarding school no matter what, but he didn’t care.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying each others presence. Mind and body relaxed, Greg spoke up. 

“I missed this,” he said softly. “The time we spent in London during the games in 2012, I kept telling myself that it was just sex but I was wrong.”

Mycroft swallowed hard. “Surely you’ve been in relationships in the past four years.” 

Greg looked at Mycroft and touched the back of the man’s hand gently. “Yes, there were others but there was no connection. Nobody I’ve been with...” He was searching for what he wanted to express before he continued. “They weren’t you.” Greg studied Mycroft’s face for any clues what he thought about this rather frank statement. 

Meeting Greg’s eyes, he cleared his throat. “I think I made the right decision after London, regarding the whole affair as... well... as an affair; never answering your calls or replying to your texts. But,” he added, when Greg’s expression turned from thoughtful to hurt, “it doesn’t mean that the decision I made then would be the right one today.”

* * *

“Long to reign over us, God save the Queen.”

Having sung quietly under his breath, Greg was now grinning from ear to ear at the rising applause. Mycroft stood proudly on the top-step of the little podium, his chest adorned with the gold-medal he’d won in the foil individual competition. Watching Mycroft stepping from the podium to accept handshakes and congratulations from a whole variety of people before he was being led to the area reserved for the media, Greg contemplated the man’s looks.

From the moment he’d laid eyes on Mycroft, he’d been attracted to him. Yes, the slender but muscular limbs, startling grey-blue eyes and the soft, slightly curly hair ticked all of Greg’s boxes, but mostly he was drawn to the quiet intelligence and the man’s wit. Most people took the way Mycroft expressed himself for arrogance but Greg had figured out fairly quickly that he only spoke when he’d something to say. Otherwise, Greg supposed, he wouldn’t talk to him, would he? No, Greg loved the whole package that was Mycroft Holmes, and that was probably the reason why the slight sting of having won only a silver medal completely disappeared with Mycroft's success.

Greg knew he should be grateful anyhow because compared to his results in London a silver medal for the 1500 m freestyle was a huge improvement. Still, he’d promised himself, that he’d bring home a gold medal. He’d high expectations for the upcoming final on the following day; after all, 100 m butterfly was his major discipline and he’d already set a new record in the heat.

Looking at his watch, Greg hurried to get on the bus back to the village. Light training, followed by a massage was on his agenda. Meeting Mycroft unfortunately had to wait until after the competition the following day but he’d make their time together worth the wait. Unfortunately, the moment stepped off the bus, everything went pear-shaped. 

* * *

Mycroft heard what had happened while he was in the shower after training the following day. News like that travels faster than light. Hard pressed to believe the two athletes, who’d been muttering among themselves, Mycroft dried himself as quickly as he could, got dressed and went to search for Gregory, only grabbing a banana on the way out.

He knew instinctively where his friend went – a small stretch of grass that ran along the coast, so close to the Olympic village that the area was protected by armed guards. His heart went out to the lone figure, when he spotted him, sitting in the morning sun, shoulders hunched. Sitting down next to him, Mycroft saw that Greg had cried.

Greg sniffed softly before he spoke. “I didn’t cheat. They accused me of doping but I have never ever used any substance that was prohibited.” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Never.”

“Could your team doctor..?” Mycroft began but Greg shook his head vehemently. “He was as shocked as I was. Before the games he went through the whole list of substances with all of us. He and Adler, they both checked and double checked the whole team to ensure that nobody used anything, even inadvertently, that could show up as a forbidden substance. Please, you have to believe me,” he begged.

“I believe you” Mycroft said, feeling that indeed he did believe the distraught man, who turned, buried his face in Mycroft’s shoulder and began to sob quietly. Unfortunately, whether he believed Greg or not, it wouldn’t make any difference.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft immediately came to Greg to console him. For the moment that was all he could do, but fortunately, he came up with an idea who might be able to do more.

Mycroft couldn’t have said how long they sat there but while he tried to offer some comfort through his presence and by rubbing gentle circles on Greg’s back, he remembered something he’d overheard the other night. A pair of athletes had whispered about securing a medal for someone on their team. Could they have meant Gregory, and was it possible that they’d put something in his food or drink? 

He needed to talk to his brother. If anyone could help, it was Sherlock. Besides, it was about time for Mycroft to get out of the sun. He already felt the start of a sunburn on his face. After the shower, he’d rushed out without applying sunblock. He wouldn’t even begin to consider the amount of freckles that would disfigure his face in an hour or two. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft said softly. He fished a tissue from the pocket of his trousers and offered it to Greg, who dabbed the wetness from his eyes and blew his nose.

“Thank you. ‘M sorry that I cried all over you but…,” He bit his lips and took a couple of deep breaths to further compose himself.

“That’s quite alright,” Mycroft replied. “Here.” He handed Greg the banana, suddenly feeling like an idiot. Next to suffering from a bad injury, being accused of doping was probably the worst that could happen to an athlete and he offered Gregory a banana as if he were a starving animal.

To his surprise, Greg laughed, when he took the fruit. “Thanks, I...” He waved the banana at Mycroft for the lack of words, before he started to peel it.

“I need to go and talk to my brother, Gregory.”

“I didn’t even know your brother was here. It’s nice to have family around for support.”

“I can assure you, Sherlock is not here for me. Still, if anybody can help you now, it’s him.”

“What could Sherlock do? And why would he? I’m not even a member of the English team.”

“If anything, Sherlock is resourceful. I’ll try to see you later tonight, okay?” Mycroft took Greg’s face in his hands and kissed him, before he got up and hurried to the building that housed the English team.

Greg remained where he was, and watched Mycroft walk away. 

 

Mycroft. Greg couldn't help but smile softly when he looked at the banana the young Brit had brought him. Biting into the tasty fruit he recalled how he had literally stumbled over the athlete during the Olympic games four years prior. 

The loose-jointed body immediately had given him all sorts of ideas, all of them carnal. Greg had thought he’d achieved everything when the following night Mycroft had folded his long legs to kneel in front of Greg with the grace of a geisha to give him a blow job of a lifetime. Sex had been fantastic with Mycroft; beyond fantastic really. Unfortunately, only after they had gone their separate ways once the games had ended, Greg had realized that it had been much more than some hanky-panky. 

For weeks he’d tried contacting Mycroft, sent text messages and called a couple of times, but he never received a reply and only reached the mailbox when he called. 

Perhaps life had caught up with Mycroft right away or, which was more likely, he just wasn't interested. After all, Mycroft had shone in London. He had claimed several medals while Greg had nothing to show for with the exception of sexual prowess.

Something from Mycroft's determination must have rubbed off though, because since then Greg had trained harder and had become a much better swimmer. He was stronger and more confident, and as a result, much faster than before.

Still, with the accusation of doping it was all in vain. His hope for gold had gone down the drain. Not to mention the shame that he’d brought to the French team involuntarily. And as much as he appreciated Mycroft asking his brother Sherlock for help, he didn’t think there was any way out of this mess. 

* * *

Mycroft knocked on the door of the English squad’s assistant physician, John Watson. 

The answer came after several seconds. “Enter.” 

“I need to talk to Sherlock,” Mycroft said, as soon as he’d entered the office and closed the door. 

“As you can see, he’s not here,” the doctor answered, when Mycroft sat down across from him.

“The seat of this chair is still warm, and there’s the lingering scent of my brother. But perhaps you want me to list what I can deduce from the state of your hair and your clothes that proves that he’s hiding, most likely in the bathroom?” Mycroft managed to appear almost bored.

“Alright.” John threw his hands in the air. “Sherlock!” he hollered. 

The door that led to a small bathroom opened. “What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, when he stepped into the room.

Mycroft noted the rosy hue of his younger sibling’s cheeks but chose not to comment. 

“I came to ask for a favour.” 

“Oh what is it now?” Sherlock sat down on the edge of the doctor’s desk, facing Mycroft. When he looked at his brother’s face his eyes lit up on recognition. “It’s about Lestrade, isn’t it. Doping is such a nasty business. The only impression he made in London was in the mattress of your bed, and now a silver medal.” 

In a matter of seconds, Mycroft managed to display the whole colour chart of blushing. 

“He did not dope! Gregory was drugged on purpose.” 

“Oh? And how, pray, did you come to that conclusion?” Sherlock’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.

Mycroft told Sherlock about the conversation he’d overheard and what Greg had said about the routine the French team applied to prevent their athletes from doping.

John Watson and Sherlock exchanged glances, that substituted a lengthy conversation, before Sherlock cocked his head and directed his gaze on his older sibling. 

“I’m inclined to believe that your lover was indeed framed. Naturally, I need to talk to him before I make my decision.” 

“I believe he’s still outside at the waterfront, where I left him,” Mycroft said, incapable to hide the relief he felt.

Sherlock nodded and, once he’d exchanged another glance with the physician, he left the room without another word. Mycroft decided that the relationship between the young doctor and his brother was a puzzle best contemplated at a later time.

He was about to leave, when John stopped him. “Here, you might want to apply this to your face.” The physician handed him a small bottle. 

“Moisturising cream?” Mycroft asked, clearly surprised.

“Your face shows the first symptoms of a sunburn. Cool your face with a cold, wet cloth. Once you’re back in your room, drink plenty of water and apply the cream. It wouldn’t do for you to look like a freshly boiled lobster. Not to mention that wearing the mask during competition could be uncomfortable. 

“Thank you, John,” Mycroft said, before he bid him good-bye.

* * *

Greg was indeed still at the waterfront, although he’d moved into the shade of a tree. Sherlock watched the man from afar for a minute or two wondering what his brother saw in the athlete and vice versa. He looked ordinary enough with his brown hair and the typical physique of a swimmer. Most likely he was self-absorbed, and he’d come to Rio for the glory of winning a medal, because he couldn’t accomplish anything else in his life. Getting together with Mycroft surely was simply a matter of convenience. Who could be easier to lure into bed than a person as unattractive and annoying as Mycroft?

“You can show yourself,” Greg called out to him all of a sudden. 

Sherlock was startled. He hadn’t noticed that the man he’d been watching, had turned ever so slightly and caught his minuscule movements from the corner of his eye. 

With his head held high, as if he’d merely waited all the time to be spotted, Sherlock walked forward. Getting closer, he could see why his sibling would be physically attracted to Lestrade. His facial characteristics could be described as harmonious and with those brown eyes he could be considered attractive. 

“You’re Mycroft’s brother Sherlock, aren’t you?”

Sherlock blinked, again somewhat surprised. Deciding not to waste any of his precious time by answering the question, Sherlock came right to the point of this meeting.

 

“My brother believes that the accusation of doping is false.”

Greg’s expression, although still sad, changed into a smile. “You can’t even begin to understand how much it means to me that Mycroft believes me. Right now he’s the only one, while even our coach as well as the team manager,” Greg swallowed and lowered his gaze, “think that I’m lying.”

“Look at me,” Sherlock ordered, and when Greg looked up he added, “and now tell me, did you use those substances they found in your urine and blood on purpose?”

“I did not dope or use them on purpose,” Greg replied without hesitation. 

“It appears that there are two people who believe you now,” Sherlock replied, before lowering himself onto the grass to sit next to the athlete. “And now, I require details.” 

* * *

“So you believed him?” John Watson asked, while carefully mixing the solution Sherlock had created with hand-sanitizer. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied. “The substances that were detected in Lestrade’s urine and blood indicated that he used anabolic steroids, which doesn’t make any sense at this point of the competition. Furthermore, the use of anabolic steroids often cause erectile dysfunction, which conflicts with the frequency of sexual activity with my brother.” Sherlock shuddered visibly.

John bit his lips to hide the grin. “And did you tell him about your plan?” 

“I suggested what I have in mind but I doubt he understood its complexity.”

John didn’t comment but the corner of his mouth twitched, albeit his best effort. Everybody but Sherlock apparently was a moron. 

Eventually he stopped stirring and scrutinized the clear gel in the container. “Are you certain the compound will have the desired effect without causing harm to the athletes or enhancing their performance?”

Sherlock nodded. “Unless somebody takes a bath in it, it should only influence the subsequent urine and the blood tests.” 

“Well then. I’ve no idea why you and I are helping Lestrade, but here we go.” 

Armed with a set of small containers that could easily be hidden under a light jacket, John and Sherlock set out to replace the sanitizer in the containers at several entrances of the village’s buildings. Now, everybody who came in contact with the replacement would be tested positive for the same anabolic steroids Greg Lestrade had supposedly used. If everything went according to Sherlock’s plan, the charges of doping should be dropped within 48 hours. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't put any claim on the accuracy of the process of proving that an athlete used substances to dope . The way I decribed it here i a result of artistic licence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It looks as if Sherlock's plan from the prior chapter indeed worked. Whether it made a difference for Greg or not though, remains to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that the story proceeds slower than I'd planned, and now it looks like there will be 4 chapters instead of 2 or 3.  
> Thank you, @Bryntwedge for taking the time to beta, when there're more pressing things to take care of.  
> Thanks also to all you keep following this story by reading, commenting and leaving kudos. I appreciate every single one of you.

John Watson grinned broadly as he watched Greg Lestrade giving Sherlock a bear hug.

“Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you,” the swimmer kept repeating, while Sherlock looked like a cat that was about to receive a bath.

“You already said that,” Sherlock told Greg, while he stiffly endured the open display of affection. “I couldn’t have done it without John’s help.”

If he’d hoped that Greg would let him go and hug the doctor instead, he was wrong. “Nonsense,” Greg said. “Without your brilliance this wouldn’t have been possible.”

While Sherlock was preening on the praise, he missed his brother arriving and quickly taking a picture of the scene.

“Although you went against my explicit instruction of not endangering Mycroft in any way,” Greg told Sherlock, also failing to notice that the subject of their conversation had arrived.

“One of his medals is a small price for the restoration of his… uh… lover’s honour. Mycroft should realise that, even in his infinite pomposity.”

“Oi!” Greg let go of Sherlock to punch his shoulder with enough force to make the young man grunt. “Your brother is a highly talented athlete and there’s nothing pompous about him.”

Sherlock had serious doubts about that, but kept his mouth shut and took the opportunity to hide behind John. Should Greg decide that Sherlock needed more proof of his gratitude, John would make a formidable barrier. Most likely.

He needn’t have worried though, because as soon as Greg noticed that Mycroft had arrived, he made a beeline for him.

“I presume you’ve heard that they dropped the charges against me and gave me back my medal?” Greg hugged Mycroft and all but melted against the fencer.

Sherlock grabbed John’s arm. “We’re leaving, John. I’m not going to watch Lestrade sticking his tongue into my brother’s mouth.”

“It’s called kissing, you idiot,” Greg replied, before he pressed his lips gently against Mycroft’s to prove his point.

John dug his heels in, as Sherlock groaned and tried to drag him away.

“Just a moment, Sherlock.” John gave Greg a ‘could you at least try to behave like an adult’ look before he spoke.

“What are you going to do now, Greg?” he asked.

Greg, still with one arm slung around Mycroft’s middle, shrugged. “There isn’t anything left for me to do really. The contests I was registered for are all done and over. No gold for me but at least I got my silver medal to show for when I get home. Guess that’s better than nothing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” John said, and he meant it. From what he’d learned during the past couple of days, nothing of Greg’s so-called doping made sense. John despised people who cheated and someone clearly hadn’t played fair.

“Good luck, mate.”

“Ta,” Greg replied.

John shook Greg’s hand before he finally allowed Sherlock to drag him away.

* * *

Mycroft, who’d had light training during the afternoon, met Greg a few hours later at the pool, where the last contest had been swum the day before. The only contest left was the 10k swimming marathon, which took place in open water.

He found Greg swimming the length of the pool in what looked like lazy strokes, but they propelled him through the water seemingly effortlessly and fast. Mycroft shook his head. It was a shame that Greg hadn’t been allowed to compete in other races.

When Greg stopped to take a drink from his water bottle, and found Mycroft sitting on one of the starting blocks watching him, his face broke into a smile.

“Mycroft.” He pushed himself out of the water to sit on the edge of the pool to drink.

“So, what’s your strongest discipline?” Mycroft asked.

“200-m butterfly,” Greg replied. “That I’m sure I could have won,” he added pensively.

“Do you now? Why don’t you prove it to me?” Mycroft asked, slightly teasing.

“You want me to swim the 200-m as if it was in the final?”

“Yes.” Mycroft nodded.

“Hmmm.” Greg considered the idea for a moment. It was difficult to reach top speed without another competitor. Difficult but not impossible. “What’s going to be my prize?”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “I presume I could give you one of my gold-medals. Provided you are fast enough.”

Greg laughed. “That is a very sweet offer, Mycroft Holmes, but one I can’t accept. First, you won them rightfully so they belong to you, and second they are for fencing not swimming.”

“Then, I fear, I have nothing else to offer.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Greg said. “A kiss from you would make a very attractive prize.”

“But only if you swim faster than Moran,” Mycroft said, trying not to smile because he’d an endless supply of kisses for Greg, regardless if he swam at all.

“Deal,” Greg said. “A kiss it is.” Standing up, he walked to the man who sat in a glass cabinet that overlooked the pool, to set the timer like he would for training, before he returned to the row of starting blocks.

There, Greg took a couple of minutes to concentrate and get into his zone.

Completely centred, Greg stepped onto the starting block and fastened his his swimming goggles. Eventually he raised his hand to signal that he was ready. Two seconds later his solo race started and Greg dove into the pool.

Mycroft had never watched Greg or any other Olympic contestant swim a race from the edge of the pool, and what he saw left him in awe. Even Mycroft could see that Greg’s technique was flawless. Greg seemed to fly through the water, and sooner than Mycroft thought possible, he’d turned where Mycroft sat, to begin the second half of the 200 meters. Each of the powerful butterfly strokes appeared to increase his speed, and when he made his final touch on the wall of the pool’s edge, he’d set the record to 1:50.

Doing his best to cheer, shout, and whistle for Greg, Mycroft didn’t notice the woman who came strolling towards the pool.

As soon as Greg had climbed out of the pool, Mycroft wrapped him in his towel and kissed his still -wet lips. Greg pulled off his swimming cap and goggles while Mycroft towelled him dry. He kept telling Greg, how amazing he’d been, ready to claim his mouth once again for a much more thorough kiss as soon as the swimmer stopped panting.

Before he could do so, the woman who’d just entered the pool area started to clap her hands in applause. It was Irene Adler, the head coach of the French swimming team.

Although she was obviously pleased, both Greg and Mycroft watched with trepidation as the formidable woman approached. She was dressed in the regular sports outfit of the French team but somehow made it look as elegant as an evening dress.

“It’s rather unfortunate that you couldn’t attend the final of the butterfly competition, Lestrade.” She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Curious, how all of a sudden hundreds of competitors were tested positive so the Olympic board had no choice but to drop your charges.”

Greg opened his mouth but Irene silenced him with a gesture. “The substance found in the other athlete's urine samples were extremely similar to the substance you were accused of using. Only somebody who was paying very close attention would notice the difference.”

Mycroft had gone completely still next to Greg and all both men could do was to resist the temptation to hold hands under the piercing look of the woman.

When Irene was satisfied that both Greg Lestrade as well as Mycroft Holmes were properly intimidated, she allowed herself a thin smile.

“I’m not the enemy and I have no interest in opening a can of worms by accusing someone who I believe was framed. I know these games are the last ones you stand a chance of winning gold. As you have just proven, you are in top shape. Bad luck that you’re going to be too old to stand a realistic chance in another four years.”

She stepped closer and tapped with one of her manicured fingers at Greg’s chest. “Tell me honestly, Lestrade, do you think you can compete in the 10 kilometres swimming marathon without making France look like the world’s laughing stock? I know you trained for the distance.”

Greg gasped in surprise. “Yes,” he said earnestly. “My best time so far was 1:54:30 but I’m certain I can do better than that.”

Mycroft, who still stood next to Greg, nodded his approval.

“I’m not sure I can get you into the water but I’m willing to try,” Irene replied.

“Perhaps you could use your acquaintance with James Moriarty senior to help Gregory,” Mycroft suggested. “He’s still one of the most influential members of the Olympic board.”

Irene eyes turned into slits, her whole expression furious. Her jaw worked for several seconds, while she stared at Mycroft as if she was ready to kill him but then she took a deep breath and looked Greg in the face.

“He might be convinced to help, but don’t disappoint me, Lestrade.”

“No, Madame!” Greg replied, a smile breaking out on his face.

Irene nodded and turned to leave but after a few steps towards the exit she stopped and turned to face the athletes once again.

“To win, you need to concentrate. Until you finished those 10 kilometres there will be no distraction. Is that clear?”

Both Greg and Mycroft understood her implication immediately and nodded. “Crystal,” Greg emphasised.

“Five minutes, then you’re off to bed, Lestrade. Your own and unaccompanied!”

The clicking of her heels followed Irene Adler outside.

“Five minutes.” Greg made a face in the direction of the door the woman had disappeared through. “That’s hardly enough time to kiss you properly good night, not to mention claim my prize.”

“Then let’s make the most of it,” Mycroft said and enfolded Greg in his arms before he kissed him.

“One minute.” The call from the door came far too soon.

Greg groaned and put his forehead against Mycroft’s chest. “Good night Gregory. I promise I will be there to see you win.” Mycroft pulled the man in his arms even closer against his chest and kissed his hair. “I believe in you. Gold can be yours.”

“Thank you.” Knowing he’d find himself incapable of leaving if he kissed Mycroft again in return, Greg looked up and gave him a brilliant smile before he jogged to the door where Irene Adler was waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fairly certain that the whole thing I cooked up in regard of doping is false but it wouldn't have worked otherwise. I hope you forgive me. I left the US star Michael Phelps out of the equation in regard of the Olympic Games in Rio. I don't know the man, and wouldn't want to turn him into the bad guy of the story.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg gets his chance to compete in the ten-kilometre swimming marathon before he and Mycroft face a rather unexpected challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience. This last chapter took much longer, and turned out much longer too, than I expected.  
> I want to thank @Bryntwedge again for his great job beta-ing.  
> I tried to get as much information about various aspects of the Olympic games in general as well as swimming and fencing in particular but there're parts that I made up for both the plot and for knowing any better. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

While going through his mental pre-competition exercise, Greg curled his toes into the surface of the base that was their starting place for the ten-kilometre swimming marathon. Like the others, he was about chest-deep in the water. The base felt smooth under the soles of his feet. Smooth - that was how he needed to swim. Greg knew he could do it. He could win this crazy competition, but there was no room for the tiniest of mistakes and he’d need all the strength and determination he could find within him. That, and he needed to avoid getting too close to Moran.

When Greg had sat down for breakfast that morning, Mycroft had walked past. The man had briefly touched his shoulder and slipped him a note.  
Apparently Mycroft had taken the time to sit down to watch a few of the races Moran had won, and he’d learned that the swimmer tended to kick. There wouldn’t be too much power in the concealed kick but even a small bruise or distraction at the wrong moment could make all the difference between triumph and failure. How Mycroft had been able to spot those kicks without footage that showed what happened below the water’s surface was beyond Greg, but he trusted him implicitly. 

The signal, that the race was about to start interrupted his contemplation. Greg took a deep breath.  
‘D’accord, c’est parti,’ he thought, and then the swimming marathon began. 

The ten kilometres were divided into four laps of two-and-a-half kilometres each, marked by large, floating markers. During the race they’d be accompanied by several boats, occupied by staff of the participating teams, divers, doctors, paramedics and, of course, camera operators. 

Greg focused on his rhythm and quickly fell into the sort of trance that came over athletes that went over long distances. Like the others, he was annoyed at the close proximity of the boats but he kept noticing them less and less.  
He was swimming among the first eight athletes and about twenty-five seconds behind an Australian who was currently leading, but he knew that at this point, it didn’t mean a thing. Not yet. 

Soon it was time for receiving the first refreshment on the way. Greg didn’t feel as if he needed it at this point but knew it was entirely possible he couldn’t reach another drink further along the way, so he geared up to get through the food station. Grab, twist, drink, dispose pack, keep going.  
The whole affair took about two seconds and Greg hadn’t lost his position. The group finished the first lap in slightly over twenty-nine minutes.

Greg felt the tough current between the first and the top marker coming up again, but it was an occurrence that they all had to deal with. He checked every so often on the still-leading Australian, noticing when the swimmer had to adjust his position to swim along the straightest line possible between the markers. They finished the second lap slightly faster than the first. 

Greg kept analysing his condition along the way, like Adler had recommended he should, and noticed with satisfaction that his body ran like a well oiled machine. Naturally, he felt the strain of the long distance in the open water but he knew he possessed great power of endurance. 

1:26 was the time Greg heard when he finished the third lap. He and five other swimmers were about forty seconds which translated roughly into sixty meters, behind the leading man from Australia but Greg had an inkling that he wouldn’t be capable of holding the speed much longer. 

Soon enough the gap got smaller and by the time the big orange marker came up for the last time, the group was almost upon the Australian. Two swimmers, one from Greece, the other from the Netherlands, were on Greg’s right, Moran and a swimmer from Italy to his left. That moment he remembered Mycroft’s words that Moran had the inclination to kick. If Greg were the one who’d to choose a moment to do it, he’d do it there. The action would be hidden in the shadow of the marker, where the chance of a kick being overlooked was the greatest. With two mighty strokes Greg propelled himself away from Moran. He only gained a few centimetres but those seemed to be enough. 

Greg had no time to pay attention to what happened to other swimmers around him. He was on the final leg, and just catching up with the Australian. They had about another fifteen minutes which meant the sprint for the medals began in earnest. Greg and two other swimmers passed the Australian, and, undoubtedly fuelled by adrenaline, his hidden reserves kicked in. 

Mobilising all his strength Greg stayed in line with the men from the Netherlands and Greece. Someone behind Greg almost swam on top of him but the swimmer disappeared as quickly as he’d come and the trio swam the last one-hundred meters head-to-head. 

At the end Greg couldn’t tell which one of them managed to touch the goal first, who’d won. He did know though that Moran wasn’t among them. His heart almost beating its way out of his chest, Greg was paddling on his back, trying his best to catch his breath when the result came. He, Greg Lestrade from France, had come in first. He’d won the race by a tenth of a second.

Strong hands dragged him into a boat and Greg was brought to the shore, where his comrades hugged him and pounded his shoulders to congratulate him.  
In a daze he went through the post-competition procedures. He’d won. Greg Lestrade had won a gold medal. A fucking gold medal. 

Showered, dressed, and with a protein drink in his hand, Greg eventually made his way to the line of spectators to look for Mycroft. He recognized several familiar faces, but not the one face he hoped to see. Instead Greg spotted John Watson, who was pushing his way through the small crowd.

Both men spoke at the same time.

“Have you seen Mycroft?”

“Where is Mycroft?”

They stared at each other. “Mycroft isn’t here,” Greg said. “At least I haven’t seen him.” 

John furrowed his brow and pulled out his mobile. 

“What’s going on?” Greg asked, getting more alarmed by the second.

John shook his head when his call was answered. 

“He’s not here, Sherlock. What?” John said, before he listened to what Sherlock had to say. Still listening, John started walking in the direction he’d come from and Greg followed him like a fish on a string. Eventually John finished the call.

“Sherlock said that Mycroft was abducted.”

“What?” Greg shouted in alarm.

John hurried towards the area where he’d left his car, Greg hot on his heels. 

“Sherlock is convinced that he knows where Mycroft is, though.”

“Lestrade where do you think you’re going?” Irene Adler, who saw her new star running towards a parking area, called out.

“It’s about Mycroft. We need to find him,” Greg replied, not even stopping.

“But the ceremony...” 

“I’ll try to be back by then,” Greg shouted, while he broke into a run to follow John into a mini-bus that sped away as soon as both men were inside, leaving behind an exasperated and fuming head coach.

* * *

On their way to the village, John told Greg the little he knew. Mycroft had been supposed to arrive at the Carioca Arena for an impromptu team meeting twenty minutes earlier. Once nobody had been able to find or reach him, the coach had called Sherlock, who, in return, had contacted John. 

Sherlock immediately had his suspicion, that something was wrong but he’d agreed that John should go and find Greg because there was a small chance that Mycroft was too busy congratulating or comforting him to answer his phone. Only that he wasn’t.

It took them less than ten minutes to reach their destination, and by then Greg was all but bouncing in his seat from anxiety. When the mini-bus sped around the last corner, Greg spotted Sherlock, who seemed to be studying something in the neatly trimmed grass while another man was kneeling next to him. 

As they came closer, Greg realized, that the other man wasn’t kneeling but just happened to be really short. Even shorter than John Watson. The man had light brown hair and wore spectacles that made him look like a professor.

“Luke Park, our physiotherapist. Greg Lestrade, winner of the open water marathon,” John made the introduction. 

The physiotherapist just nodded, and then turned his attention back to Sherlock, who stood up and pointed along the strip of grass. “It looks like Mycroft was ambushed here and whomever did that must have dragged him into one of those buildings.”

“Why?” Greg asked, looking around curiously but not seeing anything that made him understand how Sherlock had come to his conclusion.

“I watched it from over there,” Luke said, pointing in the direction of a sitting area near one of the artificial lakes, hidden behind several shrubs. “It looked as if two men threw a sack over Mycroft’s head and dragged him in this direction. Naturally, I called out and ran after them. But when I’d passed the shrubs, all of them had disappeared.”

“And he didn’t hear the sound of an engine,” Sherlock added. “Therefore they must have entered one of those buildings.”

“But what would they want with Mycroft?” Greg asked with a broken voice. “Trying for ransom seems unlikely.”

“They want to prevent him competing,” Sherlock said. “I don’t understand why; Moriarty is an excellent fencer. His chances to win are as good as Mycroft’s. Still, if Mycroft won, he’d hold the gold-medals in all three disciplines. The recognition for him would be unparalleled.”

“Betting is an option too,” John piped up. “If someone put a large sum on Moriarty, they’d want to make certain he’s going to get the gold medal. It’d be enough to confine Mycroft for a couple of hours because if he doesn’t show up, he’ll get disqualified.” 

Greg looked around. “If I wanted to lock somebody up for a few hours, I’d choose that building.” He pointed to a high-rise building on their left. Unlike the other buildings, the ground-floor had no windows, and a sign indicated that the building didn’t house people but was used for storage. 

Sherlock nodded. “That’s not a terrible idea,” he agreed, which counted as high praise.

They separated to check for means to get inside but all doors were closed, and an electronic key card was required to get inside. 

“There!” Sherlock pointed to a tilted window on the first floor. “If I could climb up there, I could open the window.” 

The decision was quickly made. Greg braced against the wall, while Sherlock climbed onto his shoulders to reach the window. The sound of tearing fabric made Greg wince but other than that, he didn’t move a single muscle. To their dismay, the two-man pyramid lacked about a metre for Sherlock to reach the window properly. 

With a sigh, Greg agreed that Luke should climb onto his shoulders first, and while John tried his best to offer further stability, Sherlock climbed up to stand on Luke’s shoulders. The tiny physiotherapist climbed onto the swimmer’s shoulders as nimble as a monkey, and braced against the wall when Sherlock climbed on his shoulders.  
Sherlock worked quickly, and in less than a minute he disappeared through the window. Still, by the time Luke hopped down from Greg’s shoulders, the swimmer’s legs were shaking. 

“You okay, mate?” John asked, while they hurried to the door Sherlock would open for them.

Greg touched the torn fabric at the neck of his jersey and nodded mutely. His body told him to lie down this very moment, which was not an option as long as Mycroft was missing. 

Once they all were inside the seemingly deserted building they split up, and within minutes John shouted, that he’d found Mycroft.  
The men who’d abducted him had pulled a sack over his head, gagged him and tied him up like a package. His hands were tied on his back and to his ankles with lacing cords. Even for a man who possessed as much flexibility as Mycroft did, the position would be uncomfortable very quickly.  
When Greg came racing into the room, John was already busy sawing at the lacing cords with his Swiss army knife, careful not to cut Mycroft accidentally.

Greg removed the sack and cradled Mycroft’s face gently in the palm of his hands. 

“Oh love, what have they done to you?” 

“Gregory!” Mycroft’s voice trembled. He’d been shocked and scared but had kept a stiff upper lip. With a sigh he leaned into Greg’s embrace to be comforted.

While Greg held Mycroft, John quickly removed the lacing cord to free his ankles. The fencer was obviously rattled by the event but mostly unharmed. Only when his arms and legs were free and he wanted to get up to return Greg’s embrace, did it become clear that his joints were stiff already from being held tied into one position for too long. 

Greg let Mycroft lean against him, while they left the building as quickly as they could; it was entirely possible that the men, who’d abducted Mycroft would return at any moment. Only when they’d reached the block in which the English team resided, did they stop and Greg pulled Mycroft into a fierce embrace. Luke studied his fingernails and Sherlock talked into his phone to bring Mycroft’s coach up to speed when John looked at his watch. 

“Greg, I hate to interrupt this but you have an appointment with a medal, and Mycroft needs to get onto the piste in thirty minutes.” 

Mycroft perked up. “A medal?”

Greg couldn’t have prevented the grin split that his face if he’d tried. “Yes, love. Gold!” 

 

* * *

Sherlock objected loudly against accompanying Greg to Fort Copacabana, where the medal ceremony was about to take place. Only when his older brother insisted, that it was entirely possible that the swimmer could be used to pressure him into loosing the competition, did Sherlock agree to leave his sibling in the care of John Watson and Luke Parks. Mycroft did his best to keep his emotions hidden. It was so rare that he was able to recognize that Sherlock cared about him. With the knowledge that the physiotherapist was a former Aikido champion and the doctor could be as feisty as a wolverine, Sherlock eventually grumbled his consent and dragged Greg to another minibus. 

Greg and Sherlock were sped towards Fort Copacabana. Mycroft, Luke and John met with the English coach in their designated rooms at the Carioca Arena. 

All three men watched closely as Mycroft went through specific motion sequences, checking if he was able to move limbs, torso and head as smoothly as it was necessary for the competition.  
Although Mycroft went through the whole routine, his expression was unhappy when he finished.

“I can’t compete like this. The mobility of my hips and right shoulder are compromised.”

“Nothing I can’t fix,” Luke told him. Tilting his head, the little man studied Mycroft. “It might not be pleasant but I can have you ready in time.”

Mycroft exchanged a look with John and the coach before he nodded. He hated pain but he hated people who cheated even more. And he wanted to win. 

“Alright.” Luke pointed to the massage bench. “I’ll be back in two shakes. When I return I want you on the table, face down and starkers.”

The three men left Mycroft alone to undress, and when the physiotherapist returned with a bottle of his special ointment a couple of minutes later, he found Mycroft as ordered face down and in his birthday-suit.

For half a second he looked at the fencer’s well shaped bottom. ‘Greg Lestrade is a very lucky man,’ Luke thought. Then he covered the freckled piece of art with a towel and went to work. 

* * *

Mycroft was glad for the five minutes it took him to walk from Luke’s torture chamber to the piste, needing the time to compose himself. The treatment had been very painful but the flexibility of his body was fully restored. While walking quietly between John and his coach, Mycroft prepared mentally for the final. Jim Moriarty was as fast as he was cunning, but Mycroft knew that he could beat him. They both had won the semi-finals with 15:10; Mycroft the top half and Moriarty the bottom-half.  
They’d been competitors ever since the younger athlete had joined the English team, and Mycroft had no doubt that one day Jim would be the champion. But not today.  
Right before they entered the arena, Mycroft exchanged a look with the men who accompanied him and then changed his posture ever so slightly. Nobody would see the difference, except those who expected him to be handicapped. There was no need for them to know that thanks to the skilled physiotherapist, Mycroft was as flexible and therefore as fast as ever. 

Applause greeted Mycroft when he stepped on the piste. While both he and Jim Moriarty went through the last pre-competition checks, Mycroft pretended to favour his right shoulder and knee. He knew the ruse wouldn’t last but perhaps it’d be enough to teach those who were responsible for his kidnapping a lesson. Mycroft put his mask in place and slowly released his breath. 

“En Garde! Allez!”

* * *

The minibus had barely come to a halt when Greg jumped out and ran towards Irene Adler, who was waiting for him, her whole bearing tense. She was about to speak when her eyes fell on Greg’s jersey. 

“Are you out of your mind, showing up in this?” 

“My shirt was damaged when we rescued Mycroft. The sleeve was badly torn from Sherlock and Luke standing on my shoulders. Mycroft gave me his, so at least I wore one that was intact. I thought...”

Adler interrupted him with a gesture. “Showing up in a jersey of the English team when you’re about to receive a gold-medal for France is a clear sign that you didn’t use your brain, least of all to think,” she fumed. Handing him the white jacket he was to wear for the ceremony, she stared at him with unconcealed anger.  
“If I see as much as an inch of that shirt on any photo, you can swim back home.”

She watched while he hurried to put on the jacket and pulled the zip all the way up. Satisfied that the light-blue shirt was completely hidden, she gave him a curt nod. 

“They’re waiting for you,” she said. “Of you pop.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Greg replied and sprinted into position.

Less than a minute later his name was called and he stepped up to the rostrum. 

“The winner of the gold-medal, representing France, Gregory Lestrade.”

A thousand-watts-smile on his face, Greg stepped onto the rostrum, waved happily and threw kisses towards all spectators and the cameras.

He bowed to let the official slip the ribbon with the medal over his head, before he shook the man’s hand and kissed the woman, who’d carried the medal and now gave him a small bouquet of flowers, on her cheek. With an even broader smile he held his medal towards to cameras, when the national anthem of France was announced.

Greg had envisioned himself smiling and singing along plenty of times but the moment the first chords of La Marseillaise sounded from the speakers, he felt himself choke up and tears started streaming down his face. 

While he simultaneously smiled and cried through the national anthem, Greg knew that his parents would most likely feel the same while watching the ceremony on TV. The family didn’t have the means to travel to Brazil but they’d celebrate when he returned.

La Marseillaise ended and to another round of applause Greg wiped away his tears and posed for the photo with his fellow competitors and medal-winners. The following minutes passed in a blur with congratulations from people he knew as well as complete strangers. Even Irene Adler apparently had forgiven him because she kissed him on both cheeks and even smiled.

When Greg was finally free to leave, he found Sherlock still waiting for him. From the expression on the young man’s face Greg could see that Mycroft had won. Although hardly possible, the knowledge that Mycroft was the first man who’d won a gold-medal in all three single fencing competitions, kicked up Greg’s level of happiness another notch. 

“If you hug me again, I will punch you,” Sherlock threatened, when he saw the swimmer’s expression. All Greg could do was laugh but he refrained from embracing the young man. 

“So Mycroft won?” 

Sherlock nodded while Greg punched his fist in the air. “Yes. He’s made history today.” Although Sherlock did his best, he didn’t manage to keep the pride about his brother’s success out of his voice. 

“I’m looking forward to the celebration,” Greg grinned. 

“Please refrain from revealing any details whatsoever about your so-called celebration.” Sherlock shuddered visibly but Greg just laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

 

* * *

The remaining days in Rio seemed to fly by. No longer having to compete, medal-winners Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes where delighted that they had time to watch whatever competitions they were interested in; provided they managed to secure a seat. 

Slightly disappointed that he’d missed archery, Mycroft was delighted to watch Nick Skelton win gold in Equestrian Individual jumping. Greg caught one of the quarter finals of football and, together with John Watson, got seriously drunk after Great Britain’s rugby team were defeated in the final against Fiji - 43 to 7. 

Greg and Mycroft walked along the beach, holding hands. They sat next to each other at various parties and celebrations, and they spent the nights together in Mycroft’s narrow bed, having as much sex as men in their prime were able to have.

It was on the morning of the 21st August, the day of the closing ceremony, when it occurred to Greg, that his time with Mycroft was running out. Both men had spent the prior evening with their own team celebrating, and were packing their bags as they were to catch a plane to Europe shortly after the closing ceremony. 

They’d spent so much time together but somehow hadn’t gotten around to talking about what would happen after Rio. The thought that Mycroft might once again disappear from his life felt like a punch to Greg’s stomach. Checking the time, he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket to text Mycroft. 

‘I need to see you asap. x’

The text was read almost immediately but he’d to wait an agonizing half hour before he received an answer. 

‘Apologies, Gregory. I was interviewed by GQ. Everything alright?’

‘Not really,’ Greg thought, but he replied by texting, ‘yes, just need to see you.’

Mycroft’s own reply came straight away.‘I have to finish packing, but could meet you in 15 minutes.’

‘Good. I’ll wait downstairs.’

‘OK.’

Greg made his way to the small park next to the building where the English team had its accommodation. He was nervous and kept pacing while he waited. Greg knew that Mycroft liked him well enough, but would he want to see him again once they were back in Europe? It was entirely possible that Mycroft viewed their whole interaction as nothing more than means for sexual release. Sexual attraction alone wasn’t enough to build a long-term relationship.

The cries of a small flock of parakeets startled him, and for a couple of minutes he watched the colourful birds, that roistered and wrangled among themselves. Two particularly noisy parakeets made Greg laugh, and he felt himself relax.

Unlike four years prior, Greg had an idea what to do with his life. Being one of the amateur athletes that competed at the Olympics, he’d completed his studies of criminology and forensic science in Paris. Although he loved France and was infinitely grateful for the chance to compete at the Olympic games, he wanted to live in London. 

Armed with a bachelor’s degree as well as a master of science, both recognized in the whole of Europe, Greg intended to apply at New Scotland Yard to work as a police officer. He knew that Mycroft wanted to work as an advisor in Westminster, and Greg had no doubt that the man’s knowledge in politics and history, his intelligence as well his skill of observation would guarantee Mycroft any position he wanted. The question that remained was if Mycroft considered Greg acceptable within the social circles he frequented.

“Gregory,” Mycroft called out, when he spotted the swimmer in the shade of a tree. 

Greg started and turned around, his expression wild.

“Is everything alright?” Mycroft looked at him in concern.

“Well,” Greg ran a hand through his hair, “I need to talk to you, to ask you something.”

Mycroft led Greg to a bench and they both sat down. 

“Okay, what do you want to talk about?” Mycroft asked, his gaze open and amenable.

“I...” Greg swallowed and took Mycroft’s hands. “Look, I might not exactly fulfil the requirements of what your parents originally intended but I studied and got both a bachelor’s and master’s degree. It might not be clear but I did evolve over the past four years. Clearly you can have anybody you want and I’ve no noble origin but I’m willing to work hard and try be worth your while,” he gushed.

Mycroft’s forehead creased. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Greg swallowed. “See, you’ve achieved what nobody else before achieved at the Olympics. I’m sure people will queue to offer you jobs, and there will be interviews and perhaps a contract for a commercial. I know that even by getting accepted at the Met I won’t even be close to your standard but perhaps you would still consider me… I mean that you and I...”

All of a sudden Greg ran out of steam, and he slumped in his seat, looking at Mycroft helplessly. 

“Do you mean to tell me that you want to see me when we’re back in Europe?” Mycroft asked, incredulously. 

“Yes,” Greg replied, his voice small.

“Gregory...” Mycroft began but the swimmer interrupted him.

“Please, you don’t have to give me an answer now. There’s still time for you to make a decision. You... hmpf.” 

Greg was forced to stop talking when Mycroft placed his hand over Greg’s mouth.

“Yes,” Mycroft simply said, and Greg blinked.

Mycroft’s face softened when he detected Greg’s obvious confusion. He took his hand from the man’s mouth to cradle his face in both of his palm.

“Are you really worried that I wouldn’t want to see you again, once we’re back home?”

Greg nodded, his eyes moist and his expression fearful.

“I care deeply for you, Gregory, and would like nothing more than getting to know you better once we’ve returned to Europe.” 

“You do?” Greg, who could hardly believe his ears, swallowed.

For an answer, Mycroft placed his mouth gently on Greg’s to relay everything words couldn’t properly express. He poured his whole heart and soul into the kiss, while Greg clung to him like a drowning man wanted air. A minute passed, and a second too, before Mycroft felt that his message had been received.

“You care for me. You truly care for me,” Greg almost stammered, and Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Yes, you wonderful moron. I do care for you. I might even be on the verge of falling in love with you,” Mycroft said.

Helpless laughter broke free, and Greg felt a tear slip from his eye. “So I will see you again?”

“Of course you will. I will be honoured to know you when we’re both in London. I hope to date you, to dine and wine you, and I will do my best to get to know you better. Provided, that is what you want too.”

“Yes, I want that very much.” Greg felt his heart thump happily in his chest. He threw himself into Mycroft’s arms, and while they kissed again, that, what had been fantasy slowly shaped itself into truth.


End file.
